


burn, together

by nagare



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Developing Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life, but like considerably lighter in tone and plot i promise, running from responsibilities, walkie talkies, you can call this a firewatch au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagare/pseuds/nagare
Summary: It’s dry season at the Oghma National Park again, and Ferdinand sets off to do what any soul-searching, recently unemployed young man of twenty-three years would do: watch for fire sightings and sit in complete isolation in the woodland wilderness for the next three months.Well, not complete isolation. There’s that smug supervisor on the other end of his transceiver.“What a shame. You could have named the ensuing fire.”
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 21
Kudos: 88





	burn, together

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: blatant disregard of fodlan geography, blatant bullshitting through actual wilderness living procedures, occasional mentions of past adrestian noble typical child abuse (but not in this chapter yet). 
> 
> you don't need to play or watch firewatch at all to understand anything! this takes place in like, a modern-ish AU fodlan of my making. roughly 1980 era technology and such.

**day 1:**

Ferdinand washes his face in the creek, and even fancies to drink a little bit of it, against his more civilised instinct. It should be fine though, he consoles himself, since it’s running water. And if something this small of a step into acclimating to the wilderness was already enough to make him nervous, he might as well give up now, and von Aegirs do _not_ run away from their commitments with their tail between their legs.

Okay, maybe his father did exactly that, but Ferdinand had long sworn to be nothing like that cow of a man. 

_You grew up with the gift of that rotten legacy,_ the little Dorothea on his shoulder spits in his ear. He shuts up, even though this conversation has occurred entirely in his head. After all, he is here for a purpose, and that purpose is most definitely not here to mope over disappointing fathers and disappointed friends.

He’s been hiking for well over four hours now, and though he’s already passed by one watch tower and is well on his way to the next, _his_ is supposed to be quite a bit farther in. 

Two days on foot, the ranger at the base of the mountain range offered apologetically. Her name was Ingrid, and she was amiable enough. She handed him his initiate’s pack, his uniform and a spare, and showed him the easiest way to get to his post on his ranger’s map. After he signed a lengthy legal document absolving the upper management of any blame if he tumbles to his death into some wayward ravine, Ingrid gave his arm a friendly and reassuring pat. 

Ferdinand smiled, but wavered slightly. “Is there no… guide? Some sort of firewatch handbook?” He twiddled his fingers. “Or some training period?”

“We don’t have the time nor resources for that unfortunately, but you’ll be fine if you haven’t been lying about your prior outdoor experience. We have supplies and rescue teams that will come to you at request, but communication and travel can get difficult especially during stormy weather. You’ll be mostly on your own out there, but there’s a senior firewatch— Hubert, he’s been here for five years, stationed in the tower closest to you. Feel free to ask him about anything you need clarified.”

Hubert, he repeated to himself, because that sounded uncannily like a seventy year old man’s name, but was polite enough to not voice his thoughts out loud.

Well, there was not much to do after that besides double, triple check his pack, and then he waved goodbye to Ingrid. 

Ferdinand hasn’t seen another soul since then, and the silence feels quaint. He doesn’t mind much actually; as much of a city boy he is, he’s always held a love for the outdoors, and had no shortage of experience frolicking as a young boy in the vast Grondor wheat fields. He loved riding horses there most of all, but Oghma’s sort of rocky and woody terrain isn’t exactly horse-friendly. But with neither the comforting gallop of hooves nor the indignant musings of Lorenz present to drown out his own thoughts, Ferdinand starts to think of his father again, which sours the otherwise idyllic scenery around him. 

He hums the tune of Dorothea’s latest song, or at least the latest one she had shown him, to keep his traitorous brain busy, and continues to trek along. 

* * *

**day 2:**

It is dusk when he finally, _finally_ reaches his post, and his legs feel more like jelly with every step he takes up the winding staircase. Ingrid’s route was indeed mostly pleasant, with only very few cases where he had to scramble up loosely packed rockfall. But he’s been on the move for hours on just a few hours of restless sleep, and frankly, just wants to plop down in some soft bedding right now. 

He had to sleep on the ground in a sleeping bag last night. Which would be fine if he didn’t wake up screaming in the middle of the night after feeling something trying to crawl up his nose. 

Good news awaits him though. When he gets to the top of the tower, a cozy little cabin is there to greet him, and as soon as he turns on the lights and sheds his heavy pack, Ferdinand all but flings himself onto the bed. It is soft. He feels disgusting and sweaty and grimy, but there’s several blankets and several pillows, and he’s absolutely ready to drift off into a blissful sleep and—

“I presume by the lights you’ve made it here intact,” his bag suddenly calls out. 

“Wh—who’s there?” Ferdinand jolts up, and stares at his bag harshly. It sits there at the foot of his bed, unmoving as it should be. Oh god, is he having goddamn auditory hallucinations out of fatigue? 

“It’s impolite to ignore your supervisor, you know. Or are you struggling to use your radio? Haha.”

The voice is most likely a man’s, baritone and drawling, warped to a distant timbre from the shortcomings of the device. Ferdinand recalls what Ingrid said to him; surely this must be the senior scout she spoke of. What was his name again, Harry? Henry? Ferdinand fumbles through his pack with no small amount of irritation, only for the voice to speak up yet again.

“It’s quite simple, press the central button to begin transmitting. I won’t be able to hear you otherwise.” 

Finally, he manages to scoop up the little device from underneath his bag of now-crushed peanuts, and supervisor be damned, he will _not_ let himself be patronised like this.

“Ahem. Is this thing functioning? Anyways, I believe _you_ are the rude one here, to not even introduce yourself before startling the wits out of your charge, who also happens to be extremely exhausted from a two day hike and would like nothing more than some undisturbed sleep right now. Over.” 

The transceiver crackles to life, and he is once again greeted with a throaty chuckle. “My deepest apologies for assuming a man who volunteered for this job would be made of sterner stuff. I suppose you can call me Hubert. And though I believe I know your name, I’m afraid I have to ask for yours as well, for safety reasons.” 

“Understandable, I am Ferdinand von—” he starts, before he chokes on his own last name. 

It wasn’t always this difficult. He’s still proud of his family name, in fact, but given recent dealings and the scornful looks thrown his way, just for bearing his blood…

“That’s enough for our purposes, _Ferdinand_ ,” Hubert luckily cuts in, and Ferdinand does not protest. “I certainly do not wish to know more about you than I must. It’ll be easier that way when I have to come fetch your mauled body from a bear den in a month.” 

“My—my _what?_ ” Ferdinand hisses, absolutely appalled. He quickly mumbles an “over,” for good measure.

“It was a joke. Leicester black bears are quite docile. Our scout mortality rates are very low, and most of our reported deaths every year are from visitors with too much blood in their balls and much too little in their brain.” 

Ferdinand can almost envision Hubert making a hand waving motion on the other side of the transceiver, even though he truly has no idea what the man looks like. He has a vague vision of a raspy, hunched over man, maybe anywhere from thirty to fifty years old, cackling to himself in a swivel chair as he harasses Ferdinand from the comfort of his cabin.

“Ugh! You have such… a crass sense of humour. Is this how you greet all your new recruits? Over.” 

“No,” and Ferdinand is taken aback slightly at the lack of bite, but his next few words double down and make Ferdinand’s cheeks _burn_. “I got curious. I have your application on file, and as cute as your blurb about your past boy scout medals is, and perfectly explains why you keep saying ‘over,’ even though our radios are full-duplex. We don’t use those kiddie toys around here.” 

“Well, excuse me for not lunging at the chance to interrupt you sooner. I will take care to remember that.”

“Haha, just you try. Continuing off of my previous thought, I don’t believe for a second that a boy who grew up well-off and cultured enough to have his _own personal pony,_ would come out here just to get ‘closer to nature.’”

The barb leaves Ferdinand angry and silent, but against his better judgement he finally gives in and responds. “I am well aware I grew up more privileged than most, but I would thank you not to make baseless assumptions about my character.” 

“Oh, Ferdinand, trust me when I say I am not. The simple truth of this job is, everyone who is here is running away from something. So, why are _you_ here?”

That is definitely information he does not owe someone who might as well be a complete stranger, and he is determined to stand his ground. “Well, Hubert. If you are so insistent that I am— I am shirking my personal duties or such, because I am here, then surely it applies to yourself as well.” 

“It does,” Hubert concedes. “But we are speaking about you.” 

Ferdinand decides to be difficult, because he is feeling tired and petty. “Let me guess, your ex-lover got tired of your inability to listen, and kicked you out the front door,” he blurts out.

“Very funny. I’ve never taken a lover, try again.” Hubert seems more amused than irritated which is what Ferdinand was aiming for, but he supposes as long as the other man isn’t prying into his business anymore, this development is fine. 

“Hard not to guess why. Hmm, maybe you killed someone. No, _three_ men. And now you’re on the run from the government by hiding out here in these desolate woods.” 

“Sure, and you can do me the honour of being my fourth,” Hubert fires back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Ferdinand, we are quite literally being paid by the government. I would not make such an amateur mistake. Well, I digress. I only contacted you to make sure you haven’t sustained any serious injury or illness. I see you’re quite well enough to play childish games, so I suppose that bears good news. Congratulations on making it here.” 

_You started it,_ Ferdinand wants to supply unhelpfully, but he opts for cordiality now that his head is cooler and remembers that Hubert technically _is_ his supervisor. “Thank you. Is there anything you need to debrief me on?”

“Nothing particularly urgent, and it will be easier to explain protocol as it comes up. I propose you take your little catnap right now, after your grueling trip. Contact me when you’re up tomorrow.” 

Ferdinand’s muscles begin to ache again at the reminder. “That sounds...incredibly enticing, actually. Well… goodnight, Hubert.” 

“Goodnight, Ferdinand.”

He crawls under his covers, and sleep takes him. 

* * *

**day 3:**

“A fifteen hour nap,” Hubert mutters drily. 

“Excuse me, it was fourteen. I was up for an hour already, I was just busy getting a look around my new quarters and making myself presentable before we spoke.” 

“You’re ridiculous, who’s even going to see you. The bears?” 

“Yes, the _docile_ Leicester bears you spoke of. Perhaps they would even prove to be more amicable company than a certain someone if I had some fish and tea on hand.”

“Alas, we are mutually doomed to suffer each other’s presence for the next three months. Do try to make it more bearable for me, and perhaps I will do the same for you.” 

Hubert runs through the basics with him. The job mostly entails just sitting in his tower twiddling his thumbs, but he’s more than free to leave his post to explore a bit. Of course, Hubert’s word is also provisionally law around here, despite Ferdinand’s grievances. He promises to send Ferdinand on errands that his pony-riding legs won’t atrophy away from sitting at his desk, a quip that Ferdinand glares at the transceiver for. They have a supply schedule, and he warns Ferdinand to ration his food reasonably. Hubert also directs him to look at a large map in his cabin that has a record of all major fires in the past, starting from when the national reserve was first founded. 

“Lucky you, getting assigned to one of the tamer spots. You have the Airmid to thank for that. Well, you shouldn’t let your guard down. There was a big one three years ago right along the northern bend of the river, you know.”

Ferdinand stares hard at the map. 

“I recall something like that in the news,” he whispers. “Did anyone...die?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.” 

The sudden silence grows more uncomfortable with each passing second, but the radio crackles back to life and with it, Hubert’s somber voice. “It’s our job to stay here when the fire starts, Ferdinand. Of course, if you want to run home with your tail between the legs, it’s not too late. But you’ll have to do that on foot, since they don’t let us take the choppers unless there’s an evacuation order or a serious medical emergency. And you’ll be banned from setting foot back here forever even as a visitor for going awol.” 

“I knew what I was getting into and I will do my job properly,” Ferdinand says, a little too forcefully. “I suppose I just wanted to know so I could offer my respects, for peace of mind. I was too preoccupied with my own burdens, around that time, so I suppose I am feeling sorry that I am largely ignorant of the incident.” 

There is another lapse in conversation, and Ferdinand is about ready to backtrack before Hubert finally speaks up. “You say such laughable things with such infuriating sincerity. Fine, I will tell you. One of our rangers nearly suffocated to the smoke, but ultimately lived.”

Ferdinand’s shoulders relax slightly, but his voice strains to find the right tone he wants to convey. Apologetic? Annoyed? He settles for the former. “...I see. That is fortunate, even if you initially seemed to imply otherwise.” 

“Well, I have better things to do than deal with your prodding any longer, so why don’t you go ahead and take some time to familiarise yourself with your surroundings. Consider that your first task. Don’t contact me unless it’s important.” Hubert’s voice is steely, and Ferdinand knows a hasty exit when he sees one. 

He goes out, he climbs a cool looking cliff face, walks along the Airmid for a bend or two before he comes circling back, and by sunset he is back at his cabin.

He doesn’t contact Hubert.

* * *

**day 4:**

Ferdinand has by now mastered the art of quickly relieving himself in the shrubbery. If anyone asks, of course, there was no such incident where he hopped around frantically with his trousers around his ankles after his button caught on some foliage and nearly caused him to tumble face first and half naked into the dirt. Ingrid did point out there were a couple portable stalls scattered about the preserves, but Ferdinand has always had a staunch aversion to public restrooms, as cramped and musty as they were. Better to just let nature reclaim her due directly. 

The noise from his transceiver startles him. 

“Are you a ginger?” 

He fumbles to remove it from his belt, and is thankful he brought it along for good measure. Who knows what kind of an earful Hubert would give him if god forbid, he left it in his room for just a short walk.

“Yes,” Ferdinand answers suspiciously. “Why?”

“I saw a red-haired fellow through my binoculars hopping around some high ground like a fool, and was wondering if it could be the one and the same.”

“I—You— _Hubert_!” Ferdinand hisses, suddenly mortified. “Did you—did you watch me, you—”

“It’s my job to look for suspicious behaviour. Not my fault you drew attention to yourself. Besides, the magnification of this isn’t great. I couldn’t make out your face or any of your other features, really.”

Ferdinand spins around, looking for Hubert’s tower. He very much wants to send Hubert a rude gesture, but there’s a good chance Hubert won’t be able to see anyways. And Ferdinand is more honorable than that. 

“I hope you are looking at me right now. I am looking at you, and I want you to know I greatly dislike you,” he mutters.

Hubert cackles, and their conversation picks up as Ferdinand strolls back to his tower, as if all the tension they had from the day prior had simply not existed. Ferdinand does not know Hubert well enough to press the topic, as much as he disliked leaving loose threads hanging. He figures since they’re going to spend that much time around each other anyways, it’ll come up again at some point. 

"What colour is your hair?" Ferdinand asks, after a lull of silence.

"Nothing interesting. Plain black."

"Black hair," Ferdinand repeats. "It suits you. Though you're far from uninteresting. Unpleasant, yes, but I find myself ensnared by your shroud of secrets." 

Hubert chuckles, in that scathing tone he always has, but doesn't share anything else about himself. 

* * *

**day 7:**

Ferdinand is picking up litter as per Hubert’s direction, wondering when that became part of his regular duties, before his radio crackles. 

“Ferdinand,” and his voice is unnaturally devoid of bite.

“Out with it.” 

“What was last night about?” 

Ferdinand is confused. “Last night?”

“...I suppose I was right. After you said you went to sleep, at some ungodly hour in the morning, I was quite rudely woken up by you muttering something. I told you to knock it off, but it sounded like you were sleeptalking.” 

Oh.

“I apologise.” An unpleasant feeling in his gut. “Did I say anything strange?” 

A pause. He’s sweating, and the empty beer bottle in his hands is practically slipping out of his clammy grip.

“Thea. Does that mean anything to you?” 

“A good friend,” Ferdinand says automatically. Only half true, since they had that spat before he left for these mountains. So, Dorothea forgiving him was only a passing dream, and not reality, huh. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. “...Is that the only thing I said?”

“It was all I heard,” Hubert confirms.

He doesn’t ask anything else about her, and Ferdinand wonders, if Hubert is simply cataloguing this away as an uncomfortable conversation to spring onto Ferdinand at his own convenience in the future.

* * *

**day 15:**

Over the past few days, Ferdinand learns, or may as well have known from the start, that Hubert is quite the contrarian. He readily offers his scathing opinion on things, but so rarely opts to speak about himself, so Ferdinand knows little more than his age. (Only two years older than him, and named _Hubert_!) He claims disinterest in Ferdinand, and petty gossip, but Ferdinand is convinced the man loved the sound of his voice too much, even if Hubert regularly says the same of him.

Hubert speaks ill of the visitors scattering debris all over the cliff face, of tardy and negligent rangers, of Ferdinand, of many things that don’t seem to meet some kind of arbitrary standard in his head. On topics ranging from tea versus coffee, or their thoughts on Fodlan’s foreign policy, they disagree on almost everything. 

“You carry yourself with an admirable amount of confidence for someone who is so utterly misguided,” Hubert laughs over the radio. 

Ferdinand huffs. “Why would you ever pour the milk first? Any sane man would start with the cereal.” 

Hubert later admits he does not even eat cereal, despite adamantly refusing to change his stance. As far as Ferdinand is concerned, that counts as a win by default for him. 

Yet despite the way they clashed like oil and water, Ferdinand also finds out that the man is nothing if not meticulous and efficient. When Ferdinand reports every site he finds repeated instances of litter trailing around, Hubert can guess with amazing accuracy where the miscreants’ campsite is. Ferdinand can vaguely describe any plant or creature he sees, and Hubert will dig in his encyclopedia of a brain for a match, and Ferdinand will crosscheck it with his ranger’s guide when he gets home and find out that Hubert is right yet again. And though the rangers don’t come down to their area often, he knows their names, their schedules, their interests. He tells Ferdinand where’s the best place to intercept them, and for his troubles Leonie merrily shoves a bottle of spirits in his arms, and Raphael offers him a bite of his copious stash of jerky, and Ignatz shows him how to catch a fish. A nice amount of human interaction after days of meandering alone in silence and in the wild. It keeps him grounded.

* * *

**day 20:**

Hubert tells him to go to the storage cache at the southern Airmid.

“The code is 1-2-3-4,” he mutters in disapproval. “It’s actually the same for every single cache we have. I’ve tried to get it changed for security reasons, but none of the higher-ups care and none of the rangers want to commit twenty different codes to memory.” 

“Wow, terribly secure,” Ferdinand agrees, still a rarity in their conversations, but growing steadily in count by the day. “I admit I had some equally shameful combinations back when during my school days. Four ones, because I was determined to be number one at everything.” 

Hubert makes a noise approximating a snort. “A younger you, even more full of bluster than you already are? It sends a shiver down my spine.” 

“Oh, you have _no_ idea. I drove my friends up the wall back then, if I even had anyone I could truly call a friend— er, close friend. You know how it is in secondary school, childish cliques and petty drama,” Ferdinand says wistfully.

“Hm,” Hubert starts, but he doesn’t elaborate further.

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I had the impression you grew up well-liked.” 

Oh. Ferdinand feels a little embarrassed actually, hearing this from Hubert of all people. “ _You_ hardly like me, so I am quite curious how you came to that conclusion.” 

“My opinion rarely tends to be the same as the majority’s,” and Ferdinand cannot disagree with that. He continues, though, his tone a little softer. (Kinder? No, maybe that’s asking for too much from Hubert.) “I suppose I always knew you were overcompensating for a bruised ego of some sort, but you always hold such high faith in others. So I simply assumed you were treated well.” 

And it makes Ferdinand’s chest tighten up a little. “I like to assume everyone has the capacity to work hard and be kind for the betterment of general society, unless proven otherwise. I would not let the actions of a few,” he swallows, and tries not to think of his father, “define how I see the potential for people as a whole.” 

“I see,” Hubert replies, voice level, and they both stay quiet for the duration of Ferdinand’s trip. 

When he finally reaches the cache, he turns the lock, _one, two, three, four_ , and it pops open: 

“Hubert. Hubert, you _didn’t_ ,” he grumbles into the radio.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hubert gloats back. 

A bag of Almyran pine needles, and a bag of roast coffee beans, among a scattering of utensils and baked snacks.

“How did you even get this here? What happened to the meager and scheduled supply deliveries?” Ferdinand asks incredulously, as he stuffs what he can into his pack. 

“Trade secret.”

Hubert's voice is silky and nonchalant, and Ferdinand wants to push him off his high horse. But this is possibly the kindest thing Hubert has done for him yet, and perhaps his quiet daydreams that they might actually strike up a meaningful friendship somehow surface to the forefront of his traitorous brain.

“And why the coffee? You know I cannot stand the stuff. I refuse to believe you remembered my favourite tea flavour and yet you failed to remember _that._ ” 

“I am of the firm belief that you simply haven’t been trying the right brand. It’s quite excellent, with a rich and smooth texture. I personally recommend it.” 

Ferdinand is unabashedly giddy on the walk back, but if Hubert notices it, he does not make a jab at him for it.

* * *

**day 21:**

The coffee is awful, because it still tastes like coffee, which is drab and bitter and muddy. But, it does taste better than every other sip of coffee he’d had before, so he concedes that at the very least, even if it’s not saying much. 

“Maybe because you gave it to me, as a gift,” Ferdinand laughs. 

“Oh dear god, no, don’t attach such saccharine connotations to it. All I simply wanted to do was confirm that your taste buds truly are beyond saving.” 

Later, he boils another pot of water. The tea is the best he’s had in his life, he thinks. But it might just be because he’s been on withdrawal for three weeks now, and has simply forgotten how good it tasted in the first place. He looks out the windows of his little tower, steaming cup in hand, wondering if Hubert is looking this way. Wondering if Hubert wonders if he looks his way sometimes too.

* * *

**day 27:**

“I confiscated their fireworks,” Ferdinand mutters into his radio as he looks around the unattended campsite. “I am going to put out their campfire before something bad happens, too. These campers are so heinously irresponsible.” 

“What a shame. You could have named the ensuing fire.” 

“Hubert,” he hisses, but lately he’s also finding himself getting used to and, ugh, even _fond_ of Hubert’s rather morbid sense of humour. 

“Can you snoop around their camp for any identification? I have a ticket to write. Just first names is enough, we keep a register of everyone who enters and leaves the park.”

He does a cursory scan, guesses there’s two people, probably girls. “Found ‘Kronya’ and ‘Monica’ written on some of their possessions. And now if you don’t mind, I am going to take my leave as fast as possible, because I believe I just saw… undergarments lying around. Should I keep the fireworks?” 

Hubert hums in amusement at Ferdinand’s predicament. “No, just leave them in a cache. Let me know which and I’ll tell the next ranger to come over to pick it up. They deal with confiscated goods. If there’s anything you want to keep, you can technically seize anything you want and just claim probable cause.” 

Ferdinand does not care for that and instead prioritises his quick escape, very much wanting to avoid any chance of running into any naked women wandering in the woods right now. 

“Alright, I’ve left it in the Myrddin rock cache— wait. Hubert.” A passing thought takes root in his head, to his mounting horror.

“Hm?” 

“Be honest. Did you… _confiscate_ the tea and coffee from some poor passerby?” 

“Tch. You’re sharper than I expected. But they were a group of wealthy poachers, so I simply did as I saw fit.”

“ _Hubert!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> hubert laughs and ferdinand shouts huberts name indignantly, the novel


End file.
